Endgame

Julie and Lyla are taking naps. I'm supposed to be cleaning the house.

You want to know some of the details, right?

We went to the hospital on Wednesday morning. They called at around 8:00 AM that morning to schedule the induction, and Julie said groggily that we'd be there in an hour.

It was more like two. While Julie took a shower, I dropped the dogs off at the vet for boarding (they're still there sharing a giant dog-run; we'll pick them up Monday), went to Starbucks, finalized the bag packing, and took my own shower.

In the car finally, Julie asked, "How have you been this morning?"

I answered honestly: "Well, I've nearly burst into tears at various moments."

"When? Why?"

"On the way to Starbucks, for instance. This is big, you know. I mean, getting married was big too, but this is way bigger. Life is involved here. We're going to witness the creation of life." I changed lanes and looked over at Julie, waiting for her reaction to my sentiment.

"You are such a pansy little girl."

God, I love her.

Our birthing suite was awesome. The bed looked extremely high-tech, like you could probably sleep in it with a modicum of comfort but that, if needed, it could transform like Optimus Prime into a futuristic birthing contraption.

They gave Julie an IV and a pill to weaken her iron-clad cervix door. The pill wasn't an oral one. The nurse walked right up to the door, knocked, and left the pill outside like the poisonous apple in Snow White.

Peeing was tricky with the IV. I'm just saying. I became a minor expert at unplugging the various apparatuses Julie was hooked up to, draping the cords on her shoulders, and following her with the IV cart into the bathroom. The toilet had a shield to capture her pee, absolutely disgusting, but necessary for the nurses to keep track of things. As a lad, I saran-wrapped my mom's toilet on April Fool's Day. Same thing, basically.

By about 1:00 PM, Julie was ravenously hungry. This could be because during her entire pregnancy, she ate constantly. Upon requesting food this day, however, she was told she shouldn't eat until evening. Evening! I began to regret the earlier Starbucks run; a cream cheese danish was the only thing in her stomach, and now most of that had been converted to pee that sat bubbling in her bathroom's pee catcher.

"Can I just have a bread stick?" she said to me after the "No food" nurse left.

"Huh?"

"One of those Handi-Snacks cheese and bread sticks. I just want one bread stick. Come on, buddy."

I looked around to make sure the room was empty.

"One, dude. Help a girl out."

I thought to myself, would this be the first of many? Would the nurse return just in time to witness the bread stick hand-off? I didn't want to get in trouble.

Ultimately I relented. I opened the package and removed one of the eight finger-bone-sized bread sticks. Julie clapped excitedly as I walked it to her.

"Enjoy it, woman. This is all you get."

"Mmm. Thank you, sir."

The nurse came in to do God-knows-what to Julie's pee catcher. Probably get a test-tube of it and run it through a centrifuge and then bake a cake. I said to the nurse, "So what's the rule with food for this hungry, hungry girl?"

"Sorry," she said, then turned to Julie. "But would you like some juice maybe?"

Julie nodded vigorously. The nurse left and moments later returned.

"I also smuggled you some saltines. Shh. Don't tell."

So far, what everyone told us about nurses was true: they are the ones that make all the difference.

Our room had a TV and DVD player, so during these events we watched "Enchanted," "The Devil Wears Prada," and "The Family Stone," all sucky girl movies that I say I hate but secretly love.

After a second cervix door weakening pill, Julie had some contractions, but none so bad that she had to hold her breath during them. They weren't a party either, though, so it was promising.

It was past 4:00 by this time, and Julie was desperate for a cheeseburger. Our second nurse walked in, and I shared with her Julie's hankering. No cheeseburgers allowed, but would she like a popsicle? More vigorous head nodding.

Our movie supply was rapidly diminishing, and the nurse told us that inductions could take a few days. We called Julie's twin sister Jen and requested more. As I chatted with her on the phone, Julie struggled to open a single Lifesaver from its plastic wrapper. "Will you do this?" she said. "I have monkey fingers."

At around 6:00, they fed Julie a simple dinner of sandwich and applesauce, and she inhaled it. The nurse explained that they would probably let Julie sleep the night and then go hard-core on induction stuff the next morning. Literally 10 minutes later, the resident doctor entered the room and informed us that she would be breaking Julie's water.

With what basically amounted to a crochet hook.

Certain things get hazy from this point on. Jen was there by this point, I believe, and both of us averted our gaze as the doctor uncorked Julie and caused an amniotic waterfall to spew from her.

Then the contractions really began. After an hour or two, Julie was dilated enough for the epidural. We ordered it, and she waited in occasional agony. Skip the next paragraph if you get squeamish about needles.

The anesthesiologist was almost a major low point in the day. Without going into too much detail, he struggled to find a spot that worked. He kept poking Julie's back with localized needles to find where the super needle could make it through. At least three pokes were unsuccessful. Now, I don't blame the guy for struggling, but he would not shut up, and this made me want to deck him. "Well hmm, that one didn't work. Let's see. Do you have back problems? Okay, here comes another one." At some point, I told him to knock off the narration. Finally, he did deliver the epidural, and it was good. I certainly respect the guy for not giving up.

After that, we slept. Slept during labor! Thank you, epidural. The sleep was constantly interrupted by nurses and doctors, not to mention the blood pressure cuff on Julie's arm that tightened every two minutes. But still, there was some sleep.

At 6:00 AM on Thursday, November 20th, exciting things happened. I'll breeze through this part, but let's just say that at 8:11, we had a baby.

Important to note:

- Our attending OB-GYN was not originally scheduled to deliver but switched shifts to be with us. Turns out she's Jen's doctor, knows my uncle, and went to the same college as us. And she was amazing. In addition to being the best possible combination of cheerleader and drill-sergeant, at one point she grabbed Julie's hand and brought it down to touch the top of her daughter's head. Talk about motivating you to push.

- Our night nurse's shift ended at 7:30 AM. She left to check out and then came back, off the clock, to be there for the delivery. Also amazing.

- Julie was a champion. At one point they had her pulling on a sheet wrapped around a bar at the end of the bed. She didn't cry, scream, or give up. Not that I would've blamed her for a second if she had.

- I was in charge of Julie's left leg. During contractions, I muscled her knee toward her chest. This was a good job because it kept me busy and allowed me whatever vantage point I wanted or needed at any given moment. I witnessed things that amazed and horrified me. As a moderately squeamish person, I wasn't sure how I would react. And now I can safely say that I loved and will forever treasure every moment of that birth.

- When our baby came out and was brought to Julie's arms, I cried. I was the only man in a room of women, and the newborn and I were the only ones crying. Suddenly a scissors appeared in my hand, then someone told me where to cut the cord, and I did. Life as we all knew it was profoundly, spectacularly altered.

Now we are home. And everything, everything, everything is perfect.






Postscript:

Thank you for reading this blog. I know a major reason that I wrote almost every day was because people were reading. As a guy who has always liked to write but rarely had much to say, I found my wife's pregnancy to be a strong muse. And now the text of this blog adds up to roughly 50,000 words. So what next? Who knows. I do know, though, that this blog is done. How do you keep up a blog called "My Wife Is Preggers" once your wife is no longer preggers?

Certainly there's more to say, but I don't honestly know if fatherhood will afford time to consistently write. Hell, I'll give it a shot anyway. Check out the new blog: Changing Lyla.

Life

Lyla Ann
8 lbs. 6 oz.
22.5 in.
Born 8:11 AM on 11/20/08

More later. For now:

Time

It's time. We're off. Wish us luck!

Page

I've been instructed to post pictures of the diaper bag. Julie's team at work bought her a gift card to an online bag-making site called 1154 Lill Studio This is the diaper bag she designed. Cool, huh? It's a one-of-a-kind diaper bag. Aren't you jealous? Okay fine, I don't really get it. I'll probably use a Cub Foods bag when I go out with the baby. But you should've seen Julie preen with this bag.


She's going to be a stylin' mom. Every time someone asks her about the diaper bag, she'll have a story. That's a mirror she's looking at, a woman approaching her 41st week of pregnancy, liking what she sees.


Women are confusing creatures. Really, I'm jealous I didn't think of this designer diaper bag idea myself.

Well, I think we're ready for tomorrow. I hope I can keep my cold at bay. It crept up on me on Sunday, and I've been fighting the good fight ever since. I've been taking vitamin-C supplements and Day-Quil, sipping hot tea laced with honey, and chugging gallons of water. Damn it anyway! I'll wear the SARS mask in the delivery room if I have to, but I don't think it'll be necessary. I think this cold is retreating. It is no match for me.

As I type this, Julie is playing Shaun White Snowboarding on the Wii. That's right: she's on the balance board, shredding down a mountain and swearing every time her avatar wipes out. I'd post a picture, but she's wearing pink pajama pants with bunnies on them, and I don't have a death wish.

There's a gigantic page in the book of our life, and it's standing straight up, teetering, and soon it will tip left and land on the pages that preceded it. It's best to pause and appreciate moments like these and acknowledge that they don't come around too often.

But enough of that. Since we're not parents yet, I think it's best that I go play some video games with my wife.

Induction

Socks are proving to be quite a challenge these days. It's tough for Julie to get them on without pitching forward off the stool and rolling out of the bathroom and down the stairs like Violet Beauregarde after the blueberry chewing gum incident.

Was that mean? I'm crabby. When this young lady is born, she's grounded.

The clock is ticking. If the induction goes according to plan, Julie could be in labor in two days. On Wednesday someone will call her between 5:30 and 8:30 in the morning and give her a time to go in. It's not unlike when you need a plumber, the whole "We'll try to fit you in, but no promises" kind of thing. If a bunch of ladies in the Twin Cities suddenly have pregnancy-related plumbing catastrophes, we might get bumped.

Knowing the birth date is a bit odd. Birth and death generally involve an element of surprise, which is what keeps us on our toes. I know it's morbid to discuss, but it would be unbearably weird if everyone knew what day they'd die. Likewise, knowing the exact day that life will begin seems like playing God.

But if you're talking about God, then you might argue that life begins long before the actual birth, but that's an issue we don't need to explore here. I think most can agree that at least in many practical ways, life begins at birth. The feeding, the changing diapers, the telling your mother what her granddaughter's name is--that stuff happens at birth. But I can understand why some people prefer to go naturally, for then you're not taking control of something that maybe, maybe, just maybe you're not meant to.

Blah blah blah. If God gives a rat's ass about such things, then I'll do 100 push-ups at the pearly gates. When people preach about the importance of going naturally, I want to flick their ear with all my finger's might. I saw part of a TV show that had all these smug women talking about birthing without drugs, without anything. "Oh, it was such a beautiful experience," one said without blinking. "I don't understand how women can--" and at that point I flipped the channel.

So we're excited about the induction, at least I am. I want to meet this kid. Plus I'll get to finish this blog, maybe start another one.

Thirty

Well, she's done it. Julie has managed to avoid motherhood in her 20s. Whereas I have fathered children with various women all over the world, okay I'm kidding.

I think Julie harbored certain fantasies of being a mother before her 30th birthday. For one, she wouldn't have the same birthday as her child, which is still yet to be seen today. Still yet to be seen.

For another, when answering the question of when she had her first child, she could say "In my late 20s" or "29" and no one would know the real answer was "29 years and 364 days."

But the real reason, I suspect, is that I don't turn 30 until the end of May. Now when the little one stalls her bedtime by asking us question after question, the answer to one of them will be, "Daddy was 29 and Mommy was 30." The imp will inevitably reply, "Mommy, you're older than Daddy?!" and question time will promptly end.

It doesn't matter. Julie represents the ideal situation, if you ask me. She has a career, she has traveled, she has (if I do say so myself) a rare husband, and now she's waiting on a child. She's the handbook on good living.

Mother at 30. That has a nice ring to it.

Target

Last night Julie began to have small contractions just as we were about to leave to have dinner with friends. I called and canceled, then sat on the couch and watched her like she was TV.

"These aren't real contractions," she said.

"You don't know that."

"The real ones will be so bad that I won't even be able to talk. Hear me talking?"

"They might get worse," I offered helpfully.

"You don't have to sit there and watch me."

I decided making a bowl of popcorn wouldn't go over well.

The contractions ultimately did go away. After eating whatever we could find in the house, Julie wanted to go to Target.

"Um, why?"

"Target is fun. Get me my jeans; I don't want to wear fleecy pants."

At Target, Julie looked at fun things to buy.


In the kitchen aisle she picked up a glass mixing bowl. Suddenly she handed it to me and said, "Heeeeeeeeeeeeee."

I looked at the floor, expecting to be standing in Lake Amnio. Something was moving above my sight-line, so I looked up to see Julie waving a hand. I grabbed her wrist to stop the hand and saw sticking out of her finger a tiny shard of glass that had apparently broken off the side of the bowl. "Heeeeeeeeee," she said again.

"Hold still." I removed it.

"Did you get it all?"

I had. Now, when your wife is two days past her due-date and a glass bowl at Target attacks her finger, it's tough not to overreact. I've never struggled to express frustration in any situation, so off I marched with her to customer service.

"Can you page an ETL, please?" I said to the befuddled cashier. ETL stands for Executive Team Lead, which I know because Julie works for corporate. I was hoping that using the abbreviation would make me sound important and like kind of an asshole.

Julie explained what happened, and the cashier ran to look for bandaids. By this time the wound had just about stopped bleeding on its own, and I was hoping it would at least remain visible until the ETL answered the page. Finally the ETL hurried up to us, apologized, and asked if there was anything she could do. I felt stupid by this point, so I made a joke about us being okay as long as the cut didn't send Julie into labor.

Although in retrospect it would've been great if it had. But anyway, we finished our shopping and headed home. This morning, she's had no contractions, but she's definitely feeling nervous about being induced on Wednesday. She's heard that it hurts more than going naturally. I suppose it makes sense because they're making your body do something that it doesn't think it's ready to do, as opposed to letting the process start gradually and then build.

Regardless, it'll be a bit worse than a tiny cut on the finger.

Treading

Well, Julie decided that her leave of absence will start Monday, baby or not. I can't imagine how it would feel to be done with Corporate America for the rest of 2008 and the first two months of 2009. She also scheduled her induction for Wednesday. Whee!

This weekend, I will feed her spicy foods. I will make her hop around the livingroom like a bunny-rabbit. If that doesn't work, I'll put her in the wheelbarrow and roll her around the neighborhood, up and down speed bumps and through piles of leaves, in hopes to jostle the baby into action.

If it works too well and she starts to deliver while in the wheelbarrow, then I will put on some gardening gloves and make it happen. In the wheelbarrow she'll be at a pretty decent angle for birthing, so...yeah, I'm a moron.

I did get the car seat inspected yesterday. I'm glad I got it taken care of; those things are nearly impossible to install yourself. Basically, what all new parents should do is set up an appointment early. We lucked out to find an officer who could fit me in the very next day. I had to kneel on the base with all my weight while both of us jerked the seatbelt upward to make it so tight that the base wouldn't move more than an inch.

Any guesses at how much training this police officer got on car seat installation? Try 40 hours. Wow: and to think that many parents just install it themselves and hope it's all good. I'll be able to install my own car seats from now on, but I'm definitely not teaching anybody else, nor should you unless you want to be held responsible if something goes wrong.

So we're kind of treading water at this point. Today we got the dogs groomed, so they're not all mangy and nasty anymore; they're closer to worthy of meeting their new young master.

If she ever comes, that is.

Overdue

Here she is overdue, bright eyed and ready for work. This is what cuckoo looks like. I keep telling her that her maternity leave should start at this instant. I wish someone else would mandate it, her boss or something, just say "Julie, you are done. I don't even want to hear from you again until March. Email me when you have the baby--but that's it."

Julie didn't actually go to work today. During her doctor appointment, the doctor stripped her membrane. I know that sounds perverted, and actually it kind of is. I think I have a basic understanding, so here goes. You might want to take a deep breath.

The birth canal is like a chimney. The baby is Santa, with a great big sack of fluid, or toys. Trouble is, the toy sack gets stuck to the side of the chimney, so Santa decides to chill with Rudolph the red-nosed placenta rather than come down the chimney. Apparently, when the doctor unsticks the toy sack from the chimney wall, Santa sometimes says to himself, "Hey, wasn't Christmas yesterday?"

Of course, it doesn't always work. Sometimes it does. But anyway, if that was your chimney, you wouldn't go to work later either.

Julie had already scheduled to work from home tomorrow, but she's planning to go to work on Monday. Did you pay attention to that sentence? She's planning to go to work on Monday. One of her colleagues emailed her the following refreshingly sane suggestions:

1. Demand all statuses be done at the Dairy Queen. If they want your time, you should be nourishing your body before labor.

2. During statuses or meetings hold your stomach and start looking at your watch as to time fake contractions.

3. Two minutes before the end of a meeting stand up and say “It's time” and walk out. Count how many people come out after you to see if you are in labor or if they just think you have another meeting to attend.

4. Place an Out of Office message that states “I am going to have a baby soon so please don’t email me again until March of 2009. If you need immediate assistance find someone that is not 10 months pregnant.”

5. Work from 10-3 today. Leave and let others know you are just too uncomfortable to be here!

I'm afraid Julie read the suggestions with fingers in ears, singing to herself "La la la la la la la." I mean look at her in that picture above: she seriously thought she was going to work this morning. Let's hope she has the baby by Monday so I don't have to put my husband-foot down.

Due

This is what a woman looks like when she's 40 weeks pregnant. It could be worse, no? I always thought pregnancy would be like turning Julie's whole body into a giant balloon, inflating it bit by bit until finally KABOOM. Instead, it's more like her stomach is the balloon and the rest of her retains a semblance of the original appearance. I know, I know: I should write cards for Hallmark. "Congratulations on your pregnancy. May you retain a semblance of your original appearance."


There's a kid in there somewhere, crawling around, learning to talk. At this point I'm comfortable predicting that she'll be marked tardy a lot in high school. This will be a free-spirited child with a Punky Brewster wardrobe and little patience for society's arbitrary rules, especially those involving punctuality.

Since the due-date is finally here and promises to pass without a bang or a whimper, I figured it was high time to get the car seat inspected. That's right, folks. Daddy kind of dropped the ball there. I thought it would be easy, just call the local police department and stop by with a box of donuts. Turns out that our city doesn't do it, and the surrounding cities either do it for residents only or never returned my call at all. For all the buzz about the importance of car seat inspections, the experts are stunningly reluctant to actually do it.

I teach a couple cities away, and there I found salvation. I'm getting my morning classes covered so I can get the car seat checked out and then drive the car back home in time for Julie to drive to her doctor appointment. This is necessary because Julie refuses to drive my junk-mobile, which ironically used to be her car. But whatever: she's preggers and overdue, so she gets her way despite irony.

If you see Julie before she has the baby, say to her, "Oh my gosh, I am so happy to see you!" or "You look amazing!" or "Do you want a Dilly Bar?" No more dumb comments about still being pregnant; she's heard them all.

Soon?

We've gotten to the point where nobody's happy to see us. If they see us, then that means we don't have a baby yet. Much more exciting will be the day when we don't show up for something.

My colleagues and students know they'll see me within a week of the baby's birth, so it's not as big a deal as Julie being gone for 16 weeks. But still, it's exciting for students to know they'll have a substitute in English class for a week. And it's fun whenever you know a 29-year-old man-child who's about to be shoved headlong into parenthood. I keep showing up day after day, though, and I'm sure I have at least one kid who asks himself, "Is the wife really pregnant? Is he even married?"

I see the occasional teacher who says something like, "She didn't have the baby, did she?" That's hilarious. Yes, she did, but I didn't want to miss 6th period. Plus, I forgot to erase my white board yesterday, so here I am.

See, pregnancy is just an easy conversation starter. But after nine months or so, people get tired of the same "How's your wife doing?" conversation over and over. Everyone's ready for the "How's your baby?" conversation to take its place. I can see it in their eyes: "Can't you just take her on a bumpy car ride? Come on already!" Soon, people, soon. I think.

Today I left five days of sub plans on my desk just in case. Julie's on the couch as I type this, watching the movie 27 Dresses, not at all feeling like a baby's going to triumphantly spring from her uterus tonight. So I'll be back tomorrow, as will she to her job, to respond politely to "Oh hi again," "You're here," and "Not yet, huh?"

Scream

Julie can only sleep for so long on a given side. She's like that cassette tape from your childhood that you listened to constantly: 30 minutes on a side, then flip and press play again. When discomfort wakes her, she heaves herself over and wedges a pillow beneath the other side of her girth. Sleep returns quickly, which is a blessing, but then in a while she wakes again.

And the couch, previously the choice location for chilling out, now only works for limited engagements. The bed in the guest bedroom is better, for it's more beddy and less couchy.

Dumbest sentence ever, but you'll excuse me for being a little distracted.

I hauled an old TV into the guest bedroom and extracted the DVD player from the stand in the living room. I regretted having used so many nylon ties to organize the cables, especially on something so redundant as a DVD player adjacent to a PlayStation 3. But I got it out and hooked it up in the guest bedroom, so now she can watch movies in there when she gets sick of watching movies from the couch.

Plus, visitors take note, there is now full movie-watching ability from the bed where you'll sleep.

Today I typed up tentative plans for my classes. The trouble is that at this point in the trimester, my classes need to have serious discussions about what they're reading. I can facilitate these discussions just fine, but who knows what'll happen with a substitute. With so many other jobs, being gone is just being gone, but with teaching it's almost less work to show up than it is to not show up. I have to remember that I'm literally the only person who truly cares about the educational success of my classes while I'm out those five days. Plus, my students are pretty cool so it's not like they'll burn the place down or make their own babies or anything.

I still think Julie and I will make it to our dinner reservations on Saturday. I must say, though, that the "You're going to be a dad" whisper in my head is becoming more like a scream.

Tomorrow

Julie woke up and said, "I think I'm having Braxton Hicks."

"Oh God."

"No, I don't think they're real--ooh--contractions."

"Ooh?"

"That was another one."

"Ahh. Hmm. Do you think perhaps you should pack the bag now?"

The contractions went away. We ate breakfast and watched "Shallow Hal," where Jack Black sees inner beauty as outer beauty, so a 300-pounder turns into Gwyneth Paltrow. I reassured Julie that she is beautiful according to the shallow, superficial standards of society, not just because of her ample inner beauty.

On our way to the dog park, she said, "I hope the contractions come back."

I nearly pulled over. "Seriously?"

"What? I'm ready for this baby. I'm ready to not be pregnant anymore."

"Yes, but--"

"You don't want a baby?" Dangerous territory.

"Well...not today."

She began to laugh. "When would it suit you, then? Because this is all about you." More laughter. Phew.

I laughed too, but more nervously.

We'll see what happens. This coming Wednesday marks 40 weeks. I think tomorrow at school I'll leave five days of sub plans on my desk just in case.

And I'll make Julie pack the friggin' bag already.

With

We think of this baby in terms of when she will arrive, as though she's in some faraway place, perhaps a baby factory in Detroit. In fact, she's here now. In a fit of cheese-ball sentimentality, it occurs to me that the baby will never be closer to Julie than she is right now.

Clearly, I need to watch some football or shoot some guns, drink some domestic canned beer, perhaps, and stop acting like such a pansy. Humor me a moment longer, though, and then I promise I'll go eat a raw steak or something.

I have students who tell me they don't know where they're headed for college but that it'll be far, far away. I hope that doesn't happen with our daughter. I know the instinct to seek independence is powerful, and I know that parents symbolize the main obstacle for teenagers who want to be all grown up. But it must be tough for parents to reconcile this reality with the memories of all that went into preparing for a baby. I'm trying to imagine the transition from caring for a child 24/7 to her wanting to get the hell away from us.

I ask those students why not pick a Minnesota college, live on campus, and then drive to Mom and Dad's house occasionally to eat dinner and ask for money. They look at me like I'm crazy. Maybe this will make more sense when our daughter is 17 and a complete pain, a self-centered, hormonal brat. Then we'll look forward to the day when she sees for herself what the world is really like.

I doubt it. And there's that phrase "look forward" again. Why are we always looking forward? For today I will enjoy the idea that our baby is with us in the most literal sense; in fact she is within Julie, which is spectacularly profound and agonizingly temporary.

Okay, I'm gonna go organize my tools.

Drama

This weekend might be the last sane one in awhile. If Julie goes on her due-date or a couple days after, next Friday night might find us no longer searching for entertainment, no longer looking for ways to pass the time. Hence, we should enjoy this weekend, go to a movie, an art museum, a restaurant, a monster truck rally.

It's like trying to enjoy the weekend before Christmas. What do you normally do on that weekend? Probably, you shop and/or sit around and watch movies. And since it's looking more and more like winter outside, I imagine we'll do the same. Maybe we'll spice it up a little. Maybe I'll sit on Julie's legs to de-crazy them, or perhaps I'll spend some time poking the squish in her increasingly shapeless feet until she smacks me.

I want a dramatic transition into labor, like in a movie when the woman's water breaks at a climactic moment. Maybe we'll be in a bank while it's being robbed, the masked guy screaming "Everybody down!" and suddenly SPLAT goes the fluid, and he's momentarily distracted so I punch his lights out. Then I lead my contracting wife to the car amid cheers, and we get a police escort all the way to the hospital.

Something tells me--and it's for the best--that the transition into labor will be slow and tedious, possibly with no momentous breaking of the water at all. We'll time the contractions, call the nurse line, hang out a while longer, pack the bag, and finally drive to the hospital. It's her first baby, so it's not like it'll pop out on the freeway.

But if it does, I'll deliver it in the back seat as cars whiz by. No worries: I saw it on a show once.

Achievement

Part of what made the Cosby show funny was that the parents were so successful and the kids were such slackers. And not to imply that Julie and I are the ambition-equivalent of a doctor or lawyer, but certainly in our own ways we have made our careers a priority.

I hope we don't become overbearing parents, always calling teachers for grade clarifications and enrolling our child in every activity imaginable. If she does happen to possess talent in a sport or the arts, I hope it doesn't become about being the best, because I don't want to be one of those fathers who screams at referees. I don't want to volunteer in the ticket office just so my kid gets the lead in the play.

I probably will, though. But what if we have a Cosby kid? What if our daughter becomes a Theo, full of schemes and ideas but no follow-through, a lovable headache of a child? It's pretty much inevitable, isn't it? And I suppose that's okay.

My sister emailed me today. Clearly her sense of humor is similar to mine:

"By the way, she can learn to read by 10 months if you pay only $129.95 now. Seriously, I saw an amazing infomercial for it. Of course, she'll be reading trashy romance novels by age 5 and totally bored in kindergarten, a complete outcast, etc., but at least she will be able to read a flashcard that says KANGAROO."

I laughed aloud when I read it, but then I must admit that for a split second I thought, "Seriously?" And by thinking "Seriously?" I was considering whether it was possible for my daughter, too. The unborn carry such promise that it's easy to get swept away with the notion that within Julie's two-story bungalow of a womb might dwell greatness.

But entertaining that fantasy for more than a second or two seems greedy. It comes from wanting the best for your child, but there's an element of wanting the pride of having created a genius, and that's straight-up vanity in perhaps its grossest form. We just watched a documentary called "My Kid Could Paint That," which is about a toddler who paints like a prodigy and whose paintings have sold for six-figure prices. The film provides some compelling evidence that the girl's father might have had more than a little influence on her canvases, though he patently denies it.

Even if the paintings are legit, let's remember that the girl's parents decided to sell them.

I guess part of me hopes our daughter is a lovable slacker, perhaps a Denise or a Vanessa, maybe a Rudy; it would make things a lot simpler.

Conduct

Yesterday, Julie's 16-week leave was officially approved. That, coupled with today marking 39 weeks, means that our respective leaves will touch. It's good news because if her leave ended before mine started, we'd have to drop off the kid at the Ikea ball pit before work each day. As it stands now, we're looking for the perfect childcare option come late-August.

Meanwhile, people continue to say and do the damnedest things. The other day at Target, we were taking back a gift (not yours), and the woman behind the counter practically jumped over it to molest Julie's stomach. "Ooh, you are soooo pregnant," she cooed. Julie stayed polite and so did I, though I don't think it would have been out of line for Julie to grab the woman's stomach and exclaim, "Hey, you're kind of obese!"

Who rubs a pregnant stranger's stomach at Target? What kind of crazy-pants do you need to be? It's like grabbing her boob and saying, "Ooh, this is going to make milk!" Psycho.

A teacher told me yesterday that if I wanted Julie to go into labor, I should have her jump on a trampoline. Um, hello? Anybody home in there?

Then there are the people who unleash schadenfreude and don't even realize it (or perhaps they do). "Are you ready to never sleep again?" they say with a murderous grin. "You have no idea what you're in for. I hope you've had fun, because it's all about to end. MWAH HA HA HA HA!" These are generally the same people who, when you ask about their weekend, they say "Too short." Good grief, Debby Downer. Way to take delight in seeing the negative in everything, even having a baby.

It's all in good fun, of course. Nobody truly means harm. I'll tell you, though, what to say to a pregnant lady. Find a way to compliment something about her appearance, and tell her you hope everything is going well. That's it. And the father-to-be? Buy that man a beer.

Voice

I wondered what would happen if Julie went into labor today before being able to vote. Do they do last-minute absentee ballots in the hospital? Even if they do, they wouldn't be counted until later anyway, and you wouldn't feel like it counted as much. And maybe we wouldn't get around to it; maybe our princess, the addition to our little monarchy, would prevent us from participating in the democracy.

I also thought about possible long waits in line. We arrived with a stool for her to sit on, and I had brainstormed a brief arsenal of appeals to persuade people to let Julie butt in line. "Attention everybody, my wife promises not to give birth this second if you let her vote ahead of you." But we got right in; the whole ordeal took perhaps ten minutes.

Julie had her weekly doctor appointment today. Blood pressure is fine, and cervix door is still closed, although it's effacing, which means thinning. My hair is effacing, but I doubt Julie would appreciate this similarity. When she said, "I'm effacing," I did not say, "Wow, I totally know what that's like." Likewise, after Julie experiences the pain of labor, I will not go back to work and come home and say, "Gosh, I'm tired from laboring today." See, I'm always thinking.

And now we'll sit and wait to find out which president will run the country during our daughter's early years. Which name will we teach her to say?

*Update*
"Bama! Bama!"

Fret

When the baby decides to come out and play, I will get a substitute teacher for the next five days. It'll be kind of like spring break, only it's not spring and it won't be a break. So I guess it won't be like spring break, unless you consider that spring break is awesome and this will be too.

I'm trying to wrap my head around a couple things. One, I want my students to have a reasonably meaningful experience even though I won't be there. This will depend on the quality of my sub plans and the quality of my sub. I can't control my sub, so I'm letting that one go. The plans, though, I do control. The problem is not knowing exactly when the five days will begin. I don't think it's feasible to leave five days of plans on my desk every day; I have decided to punt and see how it goes.

My colleagues tell me not to worry about it. Even if chaos reigns for those days, it's not like the kids will necessarily mind. Plus, my students are really cool, so it's not like they'll organize a 9:00 textbook drop like I did in the 5th grade. Man, that was loud.

The other thing I'm trying to imagine is what those days will look like at home. Certainly, sleep will be a secondary concern. But during the day itself, I imagine I will look at the baby a lot and change a lot of diapers. As my breasts have not begun to lactate, I will have other responsibilities then such as...gosh, I don't know. Encouraging the latch? Making lunch? Yeah, I'll do whatever she tells me to do.

Julie's mom will also stay with us that week, and I'm sure we'll have other visitors. It'll be nice to have an experienced mom around to correct us when we do stupid things. "Um, are you sure you want to feed her steak? She doesn't have teeth yet." And so on.

I hope I don't become too territorial, though. I'm sure certain parts of parenting an infant will become somewhat tedious after awhile, but it'll all be new those first days. I'll have to apologize in advance if in my sleepless stupor I snap at Julie's mom for anything. "No, I want to change the diaper!" Mental note to let that go since there will be more to change later.

We're ready for this kid to come already, though. It's too tough for Julie to sit around most of the weekend because she doesn't have the energy to do much else. And it's too tough for me to fret about these things that'll just end up working themselves out anyway.

Prediction

Julie thinks she'll go into labor in the middle of the night. Further, she thinks she'll be two days late (November 14th) and deliver by C-section.

The last prediction startles me a bit. I don't have any romantic notions of any one kind of birth, but for some reason it seems odd to predict a C-section. On the other hand, it's not wise to bet against a person who has spent the past nine months monitoring her own body. If anyone is qualified to forecast the details of the birth, it's the pregnant lady.

They say the way your mother delivered can be a decent predictor of how you will. Trouble is, Julie is an identical twin who was born in the late 70s. Did any woman back then deliver twins via hooha?

I do wonder whether Julie's C-section prediction might have arisen out of, how shall we say this, certain doubts. Remember that toy you had where you put the square block in the square-shaped hole, the triangle block in the triangle-shaped hole, and so on? Did you ever try to stuff your favorite doll through the circle-shaped hole? Didn't work too well, did it?

So we'll see. One odd tidbit is that Julie's paid leave increases by two weeks if she has a C-section. I'm guessing it would not be a good idea for me to stand in the delivery room and offer opinions based on finances. "Well you know, honey, you might be just one surgery away from what'll amount to a lot of video games." That's a good way to get a broken nose.

Days

Okay okay, here's a picture of my dorky and Julie's awesome costume. This is also the last picture we took before upgrading our camera today. We've had the same 3.2 megapixel camera for over five years, and the technology has come a long way since then, while the prices are surprising reasonable.

We're still trying to figure out the bells and whistles of our new one, but it's much better at action shots.


Better at close-ups, too.


This will be fun with the baby. October is done, which means now we start talking about days instead of weeks. Pretty soon those days will be in the single digits. And really, we could be headed to the hospital yet tonight; there's no way to tell. It's exciting and totally freaky, but at least we'll have good pictures.

History

I proposed to Julie at a Halloween party. She was dressed as a witch, and I was supposed to come as Harry Potter, which I only agreed to because I had other plans in mind.

I walked up the stairs of the split level house wearing a tuxedo, carrying a pumpkin. As soon as I got to the top, my insider assistant turned off the music. Julie, dressed all in black with a pointed hat and holding a beer, took one look at me and said, "You're not Harry Potter."

At that point I turned the pumpkin around. It was gutted and lit from within by a candle. Into it I had carved "Marry me."

"Nooooo," she said in disbelief.

I raised an eyebrow and grinned. "Is that your answer?" I got down on one knee, pulled the ring box out of my coat pocket.

The rest is kind of a blur. She said yes, people clapped, she was close to tears but did not cry, and we went into another room for a moment of privacy.

"I have to call my parents," she said.

"Yes, they're excited to hear from you. I talked to them this morning."

Tonight we're off to another Halloween party. I'm dressing as Linus, and Julie's going as the Great Pumpkin. She found a Halloween-themed pumpkin chair cover and sewed it to the belly of a black maternity shirt. I'll be the guy in the red striped shirt, holding a blankie.

Time flies.

Feeding

Last night at 3:00 in the morning, Julie got hungry. "Dan? Daaaaaan?" she whispered. When I didn't wake up, she tiptoed downstairs like a child on Christmas morning, located a granola bar, and crept back upstairs and ate it in bed.

I'm so proud of her. I think that's the first food she's gotten for herself in the entire pregnancy.

I'm in trouble now, aren't I. See, here's the deal. I'm a teacher, which means I get home earlier than Julie does. I also have random days off, sometimes weeks, and much of the summer. (Note to those who scoff at the hours of us teachers: suck it.) So anyway, I'm usually the hunter and gatherer. This is especially true during pregnancy. My concern is what happens when Julie is home for 16 weeks fending for herself and the kid.

Well, the kid will be fine. She'll have two mommy spigots to latch onto. But Julie will need some help if she's expected to feed herself too. Seriously. Take a girl who doesn't normally cook, and suddenly make her do it while simultaneously caring for an infant. Breakfast and lunch...she'll need some on-the-job training, I fear.

Perhaps I'll help Julie establish a series of breakfast and lunch menus and write a spreadsheet of what foods she'll need in the house. What am I saying? She'll be fine. Maybe I'm just overcompensating for the whole birthing ordeal that I will not have to go through. I need to be useful, you know? It'll be easier to stand in that delivery room like an idiot if I ensure that things will run smoothly once we come home.

Shift

This is 38 weeks. Someone told me today to watch out for people who call my baby precious because what they really mean is ugly. A cute baby, you'd call cute. A homely one is precious. I don't care what she looks like; I just want to see her. I'm also looking forward to responding to the first person who unwittingly calls her precious: "What, are you saying she's ugly?!" That will be hilarious.

Julie's headache is a little better. Headaches are concerning during pregnancy when they're coupled with other symptoms. High blood pressure, protein in the urine, and a headache while seeing spots are symptoms of preeclampsia, which is bad. Julie's only symptom was the headache, but she had it for several days, sometimes throbbing, sometimes not. And we watch far too many medical dramas on TV to rule out some of the more dire, ridiculous possibilities.

But her doctor told her to try a cocktail of Extra Strength Tylenol, Benadryl, and Coke. Dr. House never would have said that, but Julie agreed to give it a go anyway. This morning, it basically worked. No throbbing, anyway, so at least she avoided that agony.

Julie once coughed for so many weeks that she cracked a rib. When she finally went to the doctor, she was admonished for waiting so long. Whereas I'm like, "Take pills! Go in! Take more pills!" Julie has always been more of the "Oh, I'll be fine" mentality. It drives me crazy.

The last couple days, though, she has made occasional offhand comments about feeling weird or like things aren't quite right. This from the girl who nearly didn't go to the doctor when she broke her toe. Today she said she was walking in the skyway in Minneapolis and she wondered whether she was in labor. I just sat there with wide eyes when she told me this and then assured me, ha ha, that she must not have been in labor because look at her now.

I feel as though something is shifting. Pregnant women can get headaches from their changing hormone levels. I wouldn't want to comment publicly on how hormones affect her mood (for fear of bludgeoning), but it wouldn't surprise me if Julie's body was shifting into birthing mode. Still, we both have a hunch that she's headed for a late delivery. But I wonder. I'm struggling to reconcile my desire to meet my daughter with my need for a couple more days of relative independence.

Cholesterol

In order to qualify for life insurance, this nurse came over to do some tests. I peed, I gave blood, and I stood on the scale. The results of this test came back yesterday. I tested negative for cocaine (no joke) but high for cholesterol. That wasn't all that surprising as it runs in my family. Also, I eat whatever I want because I've never really been a weight gainer.

But now the cholesterol has me concerned. I know it's all about diet and exercise, so I'm planning to eat less junk and occasionally get my heartbeat above 60. Julie is not helping with the food part.

"I want fudge stripy cookies."

"How many?"

"Just bring the package."

Plus we have miniature candy bars all over the house and banana split ice cream in the freezer. Banana split ice cream! Ice cream is literally my favorite food, above steak, above sushi, above pizza rolls. I could eat ice cream for every single meal and yet now I'm considering a hiatus because the ice part runs right through me and the cream part goes straight from my esophagus to the lining of my arteries.

And there she is eating those cookies. I should mention that her cholesterol is just fine. Plus she's pregnant, so if she wanted a bucket of lard and a wooden spoon, I'd have to get it for her. So I got home from school today, and what did I eat? Chips? Candy? Ice cream? Try Total cereal. Have you ever eaten cereal angrily? With bitterness and resentment? It makes it crunchier.

But hopefully as a result, my daughter will have a daddy to help her celebrate her 70th birthday. (I'm optimistic.) And if in six months my cholesterol is still high, then medication, here I come.

Genie

There's a practical joke that all parents are in on, and it's telling soon-to-be-new parents that infant poo doesn't stink at first. I mean come on. Are you telling me that infants, in their infinite capacity to vomit and poo, actually create poo that is benign in smell? Are you seriously telling me that their shit doesn't stink?

Julie insists this is true. Therefore, we have not yet bought a diaper pail because apparently the right way to go is to simply throw away the neutral-smelling diaper in the regular trash. Perhaps you take out the trash more often so your kitchen doesn't become the poo kitchen, but that's it.

Unbelievable, I say. I predict that in the first week I'll be sent to Target for a Diaper Genie or whatever. Diaper Genie? What, do you rub it and the poo forms into a giant talking poo that comes out and grants three wishes?

Okay, that's stupid. Cheap toilet humor. The Poo Genie. Hee hee.

Julie has a headache that won't go away. It gets stronger and weaker, but for the past couple days, she's woken up with it and gone to bed with it. Which sucks. But tomorrow she has a previously scheduled doctor appointment, so hopefully they'll give her something for it, because Tylenol does nothing. It's stressful when your extremely pregnant wife has a perpetual headache. Makes you incapable of a thought deeper than "Poo Genie." But I know what my first wish would be: healthy baby. Second wish: no more headache for Julie. Third wish: no-smell poo. Or opposable toes...it's tough to decide.

Beauty

Inclement weather is especially cruel to the pregnant. Julie's coat doesn't close around her stomach's orb, so yesterday's perfect storm found her run-waddling from Macy's to the car while screaming "Eeeeeeee!" I ran behind her with arms outstretched to catch her should she trip, and managed to snap this picture before she fixed her hair.

Macy's was just the first stop on our BABOS date (stands for Buy A Bunch Of Stuff, remember?). By the time Target came around, she had me drop her off and pick her up. Then at Byerly's, she sat in the coffee shop while I made the rounds. The energy wanes, you see, which I suppose could be explained by the fact that she's past 37 weeks, otherwise known as hella-pregnant.

"What if our baby is ugly?" she asked yesterday, clearly joking. But you know how it is with some babies: they're like potatoes with limbs. And when you say "She is so beautiful," what you're referring to is the beauty inherent in all living things, not the actual physical qualities of the potato-child in front of you. But the parents don't know that, so they go along thinking that you think that their baby could model for Gerber or Target. Which is all fine and good.

See, there are a couple reasons why Julie and I in particular do not need to worry about the physical attractiveness of our baby. The obvious reason is that our own beauty defies description. Julie is a Disney princess. And I am a smoldering hunk of man-pretty stud cake (my blog, my delusions).

But the real reason is that having a baby causes you to revise your paradigm of beauty. In other words, whatever our daughter looks like will automatically become our new definition of beautiful, by which we'll then judge all living things. So if you don't end up resembling our daughter, your beauty rating will decrease, at least according to us. Sorry: those are the breaks. You're the same way with your kids, right? Well, I hope you are.

Since our daughter will look like both of us, thereby making us even more beautiful, we might struggle to walk past her crib mirror without preening. Then again, if she's in there, I doubt we'll be looking at anything else.

Biding

I neglected to mention it the other day, but as of Wednesday Julie was considered full term, 37 weeks. Generally if you have a preemie and they have to stay in the hospital longer, it's because their lungs aren't yet fully developed. Well at 37 weeks, the lungs are fine, so this baby could come any time and we'd be deemed normal.

Still, we're hoping the November 12th due-date holds true. We can't picture an October baby. October was supposed to be our last month of immaturity, the last month of running naked down the street with pompoms shouting "WE ARE CHILDLESS AND IRRESPONSIBLE! WHEEEEEE!" I don't think October is the time to drive down the street in a minivan, screaming out the window, "IT'S A GIRL AND HER NAME IS BROOMHILDA!"

It's not Broomhilda, by the way. Although it kind of slips off your tongue like Jello, doesn't it? Broomhilda.

Every day from now until the 12th that we don't have a baby is a bonus for the baby. It's all about the fat and the hair, you see, for these are the areas still developing. If we go to the 12th, she'll have a wicked baby-fro and weigh like 17 pounds. She'll probably be able to crawl, too. And pee in the toilet.

But no matter. When she comes, she comes. In the meantime we'll just go to restaurants, watch movies, and generally come and go as we please, trying not to take it for granted that in under a month, our lives will fundamentally change.

Lump

We think the lump on the upper part of Julie's stomach is a butt. More toward the side is a foot or two. And on her bladder are the hands, with fingers playing Chopsticks. She used to be round, but now she's getting lumpier by the day.

And the stomach moves. You can be sitting across the room for her, and if you gaze at her stomach (as I often do, in affection or horror depending on the second) you will see all kinds of flutters. Picture a calm lake at night, water like glass, and suddenly a giant aquatic snake-monster slithers above the surface. Well, it's sort of like that. I remember a movie where these alien bugs would get into your skin and crawl around. You'd see them below the surface. I now believe that movie is a metaphor for pregnancy.

As for the rest of her, she's survived pregnancy quite well, though you'd never know it by talking to her. She refers to the physical changes as the preggy squish. Where muscle previously resided, preggy squish has infiltrated. It's not true, exactly, but she feels like it is. I've definitely lucked out in the sense that I think some women really do become giant sea monsters when they get pregnant. Their entire beings mutate, and so then do their personalities. Pregnant Julie is all lumpy belly. The rest of her is still relatively unscathed.

I took her to the ballet tonight (67 husband points that I'll spend tomorrow by not mowing the lawn). You can tell that a lot of the women in the audience are ballet dancers themselves because they're nearly six feet tall and look like they could use a sandwich or two. There Julie sat among them with her lumpy belly, weeks (possibly days) away from childbirth. She was oblivious to it, but I noticed some of them notice her, and clearly they were jealous.

Showers

We've had four baby showers. Two were thrown by our respective colleagues. I couldn't make it to Julie's, but I'm sure it was very girly. They went in on a gift card to a website that lets you design your own diaper bag. And oh my. You can do anything, basically. Julie's will fold out into a changing table, robot arms will come out and do the changing for her, and then it'll give her the candy-bar of her choice. It also has a digital clock.

My colleagues threw us a shower, too. There were homemade desserts, people milling about, and various gifts including a Target card that 32 people contributed to. Julie made it for that one, thank the sweet Lord, because can you imagine a baby shower where the pregnant lady doesn't come? How awkward would that be, to have people show up, look around, not see any pregnant people, and then try to conjure excuses to leave? Oh, it's just the husband here? Hmm...I was hoping to see a gigantic stomach today. Well, I guess I'll grab a cupcake and sneak out. Damn, did he see me? Run! Run!

Julie's high school friends threw her a shower, which I did not have to attend because no men were allowed. I have no idea what transpired at this party, but I can only guess that it involved diaper games, makeovers, and husband-gossip.

For those of you in my extended family who might be reading this and thinking, "What the EFF?!" note that my mother is planning a December post-baby shower, and you will be invited. Which reminds me: one of the complications of baby showers is the multiple categories of people in your life. There are work people, immediate family, extended family, old friends, new friends, and people who fall in multiple categories. Add to it the fact that as the new parents, you are not in charge of anything, including the invitation lists, which the planners do their best with. You hope that during the five or six showers you have, everyone in your life who's interested in your baby will be invited to at least one of them. If they're not, then I suppose they need to speak up or throw their own shower.

And if you throw a shower for someone, make it exactly like the one Julie's sisters and mom threw for us:

1. Make it at the new parents' house. That way, the parents will do all the cleaning they should do anyway for the baby, but will put off until it's too late. Having it here caused us to finalize the nursery, redo the dog fence, and buy the area rug for our living room.

2. Show up an hour before the party starts, and tell the new parents to get the hell out. Give them a Starbucks card and show them the door. Tell them they are welcome to come back in one hour. Then decorate while they're gone.

3. Use an open house format so people can come and leave as they wish. Have music playing and chairs set up in various places, but no structure beyond that. If there's a big TV in the living room, put the football game on mute.

4. Make the women bring their men. Call it a couples shower. Promise beer, chili, and the aforementioned football game. It's just a party, tell them, but the guests of honor happen to be wickedly pregnant.

5. New parent games, such as "Pin the diaper on the baby" or "Find the rectal thermometer" are strictly prohibited.

Finally, if you're the new parents, do what we did. When the time comes when everyone insists you open presents, recognize the party buzz-kill inherent in this activity. If you pass cards around, ooh and ahh about everything, and generally take your sweet time, everyone will want to kill you. Instead, do these three things:

1. Let the father open every single present. That's what he wants to do anyway, and all the mother wants to do is sit there and eat nachos. Trust me.

2. Be quick about the unwrapping, but make smart-ass comments about each item. If someone gives you the insulated bag you'll use to transport the pumped breast milk from work to home, the father should exclaim, "Fantastic! Now the breast milk won't rot!" See, this is the advantage to letting the father do the unwrapping: he'll have a comment for everything. "Butt lotion! Oh thank God!" Then say "I'll be right back" and pretend like you're leaving with it. And so on.

3. Make sure the party planners immediately bag the wrappings and bring them to your garage.

That's all you need to know about baby showers. I wasn't a believer in them until now, but they really did make me feel like I was cared for, like Julie and I weren't alone on an island with this pregnancy. Plus, we made out like bandits.

Stretch

Julie still has an itchy belly (I think I first mentioned it in early August). It's a hygiene issue. Just kidding; I'm guessing it's because it's stretching at a superhuman rate.

Did you have a Stretch Armstrong toy when you were a kid? If so, then your parents definitely loved you. Stretch Armstrong is the opposite of Pregnant Julie. He gets longer while she gets wider. He does not itch, and she does. She has a baby in her, and Stretch just has flour and poison.

So for Julie, lotion is a necessity, but most lotions contain parabens, another type of poison that acts as a preservative. It's been linked to breast cancer. Look at every creamy product you use and chances are it has parabens. It's something to think about, especially if you've been on the hunt for a way to be high maintenance. Julie buys paraben-free lotion at a fancy hippy store in the Galleria. I don't blame her, actually, because I'd prefer that she avoid breast cancer. Plus, I get my hair cut at a diva salon in the Galleria, so I'd be a hypocrite if I ripped on her diva lotion.

But picture if Julie fell asleep and involuntarily clawed on the outside of her belly while the baby simultaneously clawed on the inside. Pretty soon we could have a problem. So it's important to cure the itch, even if it takes $20 hippy diva lotion.

Remembering

Julie's doctor appointment today went well. The cervix door still has a "Gone fishing" sign on it, but the doctor said it's getting thinner. Um, thinner? Oh, and (swallow your breakfast now) the doctor could feel the head through the cervix door.

OH MY EFFING GOD.

I think the doctor could more like sense the head there; I highly doubt it was a scratch-behind-the-ears, coochie-coochie-coo scenario with the baby thinking to herself, "What the hell was that?"

Anyway, moving on now because that's not what I want to talk about. I have car seats on the brain, specifically the unthinkably tragic notion of accidentally leaving the kid in the car seat. Here is an instance of a good person whose brain goes completely bonkers for one day and as a result the person loses the child, gets charged with a crime, ruins the marriage, and becomes a guilt-ridden pariah forever. It's the ultimate mistake and yet it happens every year to multiple parents.

There are two major problems that young parents need to tackle. One is how to prevent this from ever happening. Two is how to not become a raving neurotic in the process.

So first I must say that it's criminal that car seat and car companies haven't figured this out. All it would take is a weight sensor in the base of the car seat that's connected to your car's alarm and automatic locks. As soon as your car is shut off with doors closed and locked, any weight in that car seat would trigger the car's alarm. Further, the alarm wouldn't be the typical BEEP BEEP BEEP that everyone is accustomed to ignoring. It would be a more startling, faster, staccato series of beeps. Easy fix to this problem, hundreds of lives saved and even more prevented from ruin. I am a genius; now give me a million dollars.

Julie and I were brainstorming other precautions. What if you kept a big hair scrunchy on the car seat, and every time you put the kid in it, you put the scrunchy on your wrist? And the scrunchy would have an obnoxious object tied to it, say a giant plastic penis. Even if you forgot the kid and forgot about the scrunchy, someone would say, "Hey, what's with the penis?" and your kid's life would be saved.

But your temperament would determine your commitment to the exercise. If you grew tired of the scrunchy idea and stopped wearing it, then it obviously wouldn't be effective. However, if you were a person mainly worried about spacing out during changes of routine--say you're the one driving to daycare today, not your spouse--then maybe you use the dick trick only during those occasions.

For me, I need something to do every single time I exit a car, whether it's my car or not. I'm an all-or-nothing person. You'll note that I write every day, not when I randomly feel like it. And so this topic reminds me of Boy Scouts when I took lifesaving merit badge. The problem with saving a drowning person is that it's human nature to want to jump in after them even though this is precisely the wrong thing to do. A 30-pound toddler who's filled with panic and adrenaline can drown a grown man. So our instructor taught us a rhyme and made us say it every single time we entered the water. Fifteen years later, I still remember it.

"Reach, throw, row, go with support as a last resort."

The saying indicates the order of methods you should use to save someone in the water. What makes it effective, though, is that it interrupts human nature. Human nature says jump in and save the person. Human nature can also say, "My baby isn't in the car." The brain has blind spots. For me, the method that might work is to make up a stupid rhyme that will shine a light on those blind spots. Here's what I've come up with:

"Time to get out and go? Well maybe. I have my brain, but do I have my baby?"

Admittedly, it's a little ridiculous, but I'm going to start now to test whether I can make this a part of my routine. Every single time I exit a car, even before this baby is born, I will say that rhyme to myself.

Diapers

I haven't changed a diaper in so long that I think it might have been my own. I know how they work, but do I really? Putting a diaper on a doll to practice is stupid because they don't move around. It's not like you can say to your infant, "Okay, keep still there, pumpkin, Daddy's new at this."

So in exchange for three treats and a later bedtime, Tulip agreed to act as proxy. I also promised not to take pictures, but then I remembered that I'm the alpha.


She'll pay me back in the next life.

Diapers are unbelievably absorbent, you know. After liberating Tulip, I poured an entire glass of water in the crotch/butt part. It got pretty heavy, but I could turn that sucker upside-down with nary a drip. They must have some crazy super-absorbent polymer, much like the powder sold at the magic shop.

Okay, so you put a teaspoon of it in the bottom of a glass, then pour water from a pitcher in front of your victim. Then you fling the water into your victim's face, except it sticks in the glass because the powder instantly turns it to thick gel. It's great for getting dates. When they first started selling it at the Mall of America, I heard that in under a month someone had done all the toilets on the third floor. Um, can we say awesome?

I swear it wasn't me.

So anyway, when my daughter is all Miley and I'm all Billy Ray (meaning that I'm stinking rich), I will use diapers to clean everyday spills. You know the commercial where the little boy spills a gallon-pitcher of red Kool-Aid and his high-heeled Stepford mother sops it up with one paper towel? It says "Dramatization" in nano-font in the lower-left corner. But I will live that reality with diapers, the new thicker, quicker, picker-upper.

Yet somehow I can imagine my daughter's excretions circumventing the elastic leg-bands of these diapers. She will take glee in it, somehow. And I will clean her off with, you guessed it, more diapers.

Nesting

We got an area rug for the living room in anticipation of increased floor time with the baby. Hardwood floors make a lot of sense when you're childless, but it seems like you need at least one good carpeted area when a baby's in the picture. This will also give her a place to aim her vomit. I scotch-guarded it yesterday, so don't worry.

The dogs approve. They celebrated the addition with a full-on battle royale, complete with snarling, rolling around, and a little humping. I think if a martian rang our doorbell and asked for the earthling definition of "funny," I'd point to a 16-pound spayed female dog humping a 36-pound spayed female dog.


Julie and I are both nesting in our own ways. Check out this organization. This came after Julie insisted we not use Tide detergent and instead find the all-natural unscented kind. So these clothes are as pure as clothes can get.


Julie also prettied up the crib. Now, the baby will actually sleep in a bassinet for the first couple months, but no matter. This will be ready for her, though I'm sure on the day of the big baby bed switcheroo, I will be rewashing these sheets with the aforementioned hippy detergent.


I'm trying my hardest to conceptualize the size of an infant. My current favorite unit of measurement is the hanger. Baby will be one hanger in length, not counting the head and feet.


Speaking of heads, hers will be ridiculously small. I think perhaps this hat is too small even for her, what with the cranial enormity my family is known for.


And speaking of feet, this sock is just plain goofy. How many of these do you think we'll lose in the first year? As it was, I had to dig into the furthest recesses of the washing machine just to find them all, and I still might have missed a couple.

To recap, our baby will be one hanger in length with a pin head and teeny, possibly sockless feet. And somehow, through all this, I think we're that much more ready.

Evolution

If you're upstairs in our house, you won't hear anything downstairs besides our dogs barking bloody murder at the mailman. And you have to understand how loud that is because our mailman is very squirrelly, and all our dogs ever want to do is kill squirrels.

We've had people stay upstairs and people live upstairs, and all report utter calm even when I play God of War downstairs with volume higher than Poseidon's rage.

Well since we moved our bedroom upstairs, we've figured out that Julie possesses a sense of hearing that would shame a rabbit. And that's weird because Julie's ears are the size of croutons. But I could be carving "Welcome, [Baby's name]!" into a pumpkin and Julie would come downstairs all groggy and ask me if I could have possibly squished the guts any louder.

It makes sense, though. I bet way back in the day when it mattered, a bunch of random new cave-mothers experienced increased hearing. It was a genetic anomaly but one so beneficial to survival that natural selection kicked in. Some cave-woman ancestor of Julie's heard a flock of hungry pterodactyls approaching and was able to heave a boulder in front of the cave's mouth not a second too soon, so now I have to watch Boston Legal reruns with lower volume.

Ooh, I just thought of something else totally scientific. Julie's sense of smell, pre-pregnancy, was intolerable. "Did you eat Funyons?" she would ask a week after a Funyon binge. I'd be like "Um a week ago, and I've brushed, flossed, and used mouthwash roughly 25 times since then," and she'd be like "You're grody." Then we'd be in a restaurant and she'd call the water poisonous even though it smelled like water.

But since pregnancy, she hasn't complained about random smells nearly as much. The reason is that once again back in the day, a bunch of cave-mothers randomly had smelling failure when the baby was born. And those mothers were more likely to care for their babies because they weren't as grossed out by them, and the new mother smelling deficiency was thereby passed down. So now you know, boys and girls, why mothers often have increased hearing and decreased smell. Find me during office hours if you have any questions.

Or it could be that my wife is just weird.

Close

In this picture taken today, Julie does not look as though a full-grown baby lives in a duplex inside her. Black is slimming, and I'm an excellent photographer. Either that or the baby is on a play-date in someone else's womb.


Ah, there she's back. Next Wednesday, Julie will be full term, 37 weeks. The goal is 40 weeks, but really it could be any time. If I suddenly go two or three days without posting, you can safely assume that she is about to give birth to the youngest person ever born in the history of humankind. Do you think Guinness will care for that fraction of a second?

One reason I'm totally freaked out (one of 7,000 reasons or so) is that Julie has not packed her hospital bag. If tonight she wakes up in a puddle of amniotic fluid, I will throw things in a bag willy-nilly, and I will certainly screw it up. Sweat pants, soap, coffee cup, magazines, crossword puzzles, toilet paper (wait, they'll have that there), movies...I have no freakin' clue. Tomorrow I will mandate bag packing. Cross your fingers for a labor-free evening until then.

I picture an hourglass with 37 weeks of sand in the bottom and an unknown amount on top. If someone could just tell me how much sand is up there, then I could cross off myriad unknowns. Will I need to get a substitute teacher right away? Will it be rush-hour traffic? Will it be a long labor? Etc. And as I write this, sand is trickling down. I wish I could turn the thing on its side for a few days and just sit and think.

*Update*

I woke up in the middle of the night. Julie was sitting up on the bed, moaning in pain.

"What's wrong?"

"Huuuuuuuuuuunnnnnn."

"Oh God."

"Gnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn."

I started counting in my head because you want to know how long the contractions are and how long in between, though I didn't remember how long was too long.

"Pmmmmmmmmmmm."

"What should I put in the bag?"

"It's...mmmmmmmmm...a leg cramp."

"Oh for the love."

Clean

When we moved here, the washing machine had a note on it with instructions. "Use 1/2-cup liquid detergent. Leave all settings alone!" Apparently, the previous owners discovered the one way for the machine to work. So for the past three years, our clothes have been the clean-equivalent of a five-minute cold shower with hotel soap.

Until today. Now we have a front-loader with numerous settings plus the ability to use hot water, something the previous washer couldn't do. I also specifically bought one with a sanitation setting, which is an internal heater that jacks up the water's temperature for shirts so clean they squeak.

With a baby coming, there will be days when we have something so steeped in biohazards that we could either bring it to the yard, light a match, and watch it explode into a methane fireball, or we could sanitize it. I'm so excited that I sort of feel like Danny Tanner, only with Uncle Jesse's coolness and Joey's hilarity. (Oh come on now: Cut! It! Out!)

Also, the door is glass, so you can watch everything. It reminds me of my grandma's house when I was little. I would watch a mug of hot chocolate turn and turn and turn on the microwave rotating plate, all the while horrified that I wouldn't be able to finish it since I didn't really like it that much anyway.

"Daniel, don't you like your hot chocolate?"

"Yes Grandma, I love it so much! [Chug chug scald scald gag]"

Anyway, laundry is much more fun to watch. The spin cycle is wicked fast. And the best thing is that our sewage line is fixed, so the small amount of water this thing uses will not cause our laundry's drain to burp fetid putrescence. All in all, morale is quite high.